


Blood on My Lips, and a Ballad in Your Heart

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Geralt's 1001 'hmms', Getting Together, Give some kudos to your author oh readers on A03 oOO, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, LET GERALT BE SOFT 2020, Loneliness, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, No beta- we die like womne, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft boys being caring, TW; canon typical violence, There's one scene in here where Geralt gets hurt pretty badly, Use Your Words, hand-holding, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22345882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Geralt is good at finding adventure and bad with people. Jaskier is good with people, but bad at finding adventures that don’t leave husbands (or wives) angry with him. He is also, thankfully, quite skilled at putting up with Geralt’s special brand of witcherly angst. Geralt is quite skilled at reminding Jaskier that there is more to life than appearances, that sometimescaringis the bravest thing one can do.Or, Geralt slowly falls in love with his bard, but it takes him a while to notice it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 651
Collections: Best Geralt





	Blood on My Lips, and a Ballad in Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> “Something broke and something opened. I filled up like a new wineskin. I breathed an air like light; I saw a light like water. I was the lip of a fountain the creek filled forever; I was ether, the leaf in the zephyr; I was flesh-flake, feather, bone.”  
>  — “Seeing,” Annie Dillard

It’s almost like destiny decides not to be completely callous, for it allows Geralt of Rivia to meet Jaskier. Jaskier, whom he seems fated to fall desperately in love with— even if he doesn’t realize that _that’s_ what it is, at first. Perhaps this actually makes fate _doubly_ cruel: for cursing Geralt with a child of surprise when he, a **witcher** , would perhaps be the worst influence for a fragile human, let alone a royal one, and then by making him meet Jaskier, whom Geralt knows will never return his… sentiments.

So Geralt meets Jaskier and fate, destiny— whatever— is doubly cruel in how it wounds him, and then spitefully provides him with an **idiotic** , brave, _foolish_ , too-gentle, loud, and brash bard to bandage his bleeding wounds. There are times when he despises what people say about witchers, but now, he only wishes it were true that he could feel nothing.

*****

The first time Jaskier sings _Toss a Coin_ — in its completed form (he has been workshopping it for _months_ now, who knew a bard’s work was so tedious)— Geralt is quiet for a long moment afterwards. His throat feels uncomfortably tight and some soft, delicate feeling takes residence in his chest.

Jaskier, too, is quiet in response to his quiet. The bard’s hands hover anxiously over his lute. “Did you like it?” he asks finally.

 _A friend of humanity? Is… could the bard **really** believe that about him? _Geralt swallows. “Hmm. It was... acceptable.” He turns away, but doesn’t miss the lightning quick flash of Jaskier’s grin. They both know ‘acceptable’ is high praise indeed coming from the witcher.

That night, Geralt dreams of the mountains. Of wolves. Of _himself_ as a wolf, and is surprised to find that in his dream, he is not alone. He is accompanied by one other wolf, brown. 

**~** ***** **~**

“Geralt—”

The first time Jaskier touches him— other than a brief pat on the shoulder, or a quick orienting contact— they are camped just outside Blaviken. They are only here because the quickest route to their destination lies just outside the old village, now town. Geralt had known this, even as he allowed Jaskier to mutter at the map and ‘guide’ them onward, as if the bard were not merely accompanying the witcher on his travels. Ordinarily, Geralt wouldn’t have come close to this area but he and the bard are— once again— out of coin, and Jaskier has heard that there are several lucrative contracts to be had in the north.

Although he’s had several days to prepare, Geralt still finds himself in a more foul mood than usual the closer they get to Blaviken. He also sleeps worse, and the more fatigued the witcher feels, the more he finds himself lashing out at a (for once) undeserving Jaskier. It is a vicious cycle.

So he is very surprised when, on the night they arrive at the town, the bard does _not_ ask if they can stay in an inn, or if they can use some of their meager supply of coin to at least buy a hot meal and bath. He does not even show signs of wanting to abandon Geralt for the night (as he sometimes does, when the witcher is being particularly stubborn) when Geralt, firmly and silently, stops Roach a few miles outside the town gates.

Instead, Jaskier just lays down his lute case, his sleeping roll and knapsack, then helps Geralt set up camp behind a thicket of trees; he also does not comment on how well this particular spot is obscured from the road. They eat a small meal of boiled and salted oats paired with rabbit jerky. Even for the witcher, who is used to road fare, it is a grim meal. But Jaskier offers not one complaint.

“Witcher! Witcher, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

Geralt starts, and is, for a moment, senseless, as he attempts to control both his breathing and wild heartbeat. Groaning, he and sits halfway up, supporting his weight on one elbow. His pupils widen in the scarce moonlight, and then he sees Jaskier. The bard is crouched at his side, brow furrowed, and his hand— warm, and slightly calloused from his lute-playing— rests on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt takes in one last deep inhale, scenting the cool night air, the distant scent of the willow trees, and the closer scent (slightly flowery) of Jaskier. His gaze narrows in on the bard’s hand, but Jaskier boldly makes no motion to remove it. Geralt swallows, and exhales, sharply, once. An owl fills the sudden silence.

The scrape of Jaskier’s boots draws the witcher’s attention back to his travel companion. He is, at once, both aware of the absence of the bard’s hand and of the fact that Jaskier is seated, cross-legged, on the cold dirt in front of him. Even to Geralt, his face is somewhat dim, and so the witcher cannot imagine what _he_ must look like right now to Jaskier’s only too human eyes. _A monster_ , he thinks. _Some beast of the night_.

“Hey now,” Jaskier says softly. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Geralt, but I can hear your thoughts racing from here, and—” He clears his throat. Geralt stills. “If you need to talk, I’ll be here. Wake me if you need to.” Jaskier pats his shoulder once, and retreats, slowly, to his own bed roll. Soon, he hears the bard’s deep breathing— Jaskier’s asleep again. _As he should be_.

Geralt rolls onto his back, blinks, and watches the changes of the night sky.

 **•~** *** ~** •

He’s _always_ been prepared to die. Dying is a fact of life— even if it may come more slowly to some creatures. For witchers, accepting death isn’t even a struggle; Geralt knows that he will someday die just as he knows that his heart will beat about fifteen times per minute, compared to the human-normal of sixty. He has come close to meeting his end several times over the course of his long existence, has even been certain that he was dying before, but this time is different.

This time, Geralt **knows** he is dying.

There is a werewolf terrorizing the mountain town he and Jaskier are visiting. It is a cunning, vicious beast. The monster is smart enough to have evaded several village hunts, knights, and even another witcher. He only manages to catch sight of it after three nights of searching. So, with this in mind, Geralt decides to leave behind Jaskier and Roach as he departs on his latest hunt. If anyone has to die, let it be **him** , and no one else—

Jaskier _will not_ die because of Geralt, and neither will Roach.

A part of him regrets that decision now, as, if Roach _were_ here, he might stand a chance of surviving. But then again, the werewolf is still alive— if barely— and so his dear horse may have still been killed along with Geralt. Uttering a deep, pained groan, he rolls onto his back. Geralt does not find the idea of getting up appealing (or very plausible) right now. So instead, he turns himself around to watch out for predators or monsters that might think a fallen witcher could make an easy meal.

Once situated, he tries his best to breathe, and presses a weak hand to the gaping wound that begins at his third rib and crosses his stomach, ending just under his belly button. Geralt doesn’t think that the monster managed to tear any organs, thankfully, but the torn flesh still stings like fire. Geralt can feel the blood— too much of it— pulsing freely from his injury, leaving a slick, cool feeling behind. He swallows, feeling dizzy and dry-mouthed. The witcher knows that the only reason he isn’t dead is the slow, unnatural rhythm of his heart. _But that will soon change; no one is coming to save him. **No one** will care about the passing of one white-haired witcher. _

At least the wolf-beast is as wounded as Geralt is. It also lacks the witcher’s healing powers, and so if it is not already dead, it will be _severely_ wounded, and, therefore, easier for the villagers to dispatch. That is if infection or blood loss do not take their toll first. As his mutated heart slows, Geralt closes his eyes, finding himself too dizzy to even admire the beauty of the stars as he passes. Instead, he tries to focus on the soothing scent of the woods, and not the stink of the beast upon him, or his own sweat, or the tang of his own blood.

 _For a witcher, this is not such a terrible way to go_.

His nostrils flare at the sharp, bitter scent of herbs and the thick, cloying smell of magic. Then Geralt becomes aware of the unpleasant odor of old sweat, unshed tears, and blood. Then he realizes that the darkness is not _nothingness_ , nor is it empty. He squeezes his eyes more tightly shut and then blinks. Light and awareness and sight are overwhelming— piercing, even, to the witcher’s sensitive, mutated eyes. So Geralt immediately slams his eyelids shut, and instead, focuses on breathing. It feels more difficult, for some reason.

“G-Geralt? Are you awake?”

“Hmm.” _I could be_. Something warm, and slightly clammy squeezes his hand, and with alarm, the witcher tries to free himself from the mysterious, threatening grip. He cracks open his eyes again and sees that Jaskier, looking careworn and rumpled, is sitting in a chair at his bedside. The bard, he realizes, is holding his hand— _that’s_ the source of the unfamiliar pressure. Geralt stops trying to free his hand. He even, weakly, squeezes back. The bard offers him a warm smile. But the relief is short-lived.

“How do you feel?”

“Hrn.” He swallows weakly. A glass materializes in front of his face, and Jaskier assists him with taking a sip of blessedly-cool water. After the glass is set aside, Geralt wipes a few drops of liquid from his lips, wincing as the movement tugs at his injury. “Like I fought a lycanthrope and lost.”

Jaskier frowns. His grip on Geralt’s hand— _when had the bard grabbed his hand again?_ — tightens. “Don’t say that! You **didn’t** lose, Geralt. You didn’t because you’re still alive, and you are going to _stay_ that way.”

Geralt opens his mouth to reply, but is overcome by a yawn. He’s exhausted. Jaskier, unfortunately, notices. “Rest,” the bard says. “I’ll be here.” Distantly, the witcher hears him start to hum.

-• **~** ***** **~** •-

The wine is sour and weak, which reflects his current mood nicely.

Absently, Geralt tugs at the tight, too-slippery formal shirt and adjusts his stance, attempting to find a way to stand that doesn’t cause his poor feet to ache in their thin, formal footwear. He already regrets agreeing to accompany Jaskier to this heathen court celebration, and by his observation, it’s only been a half-hour. But the bard had _insisted_ they come here, as this noble was known to have the finest tastes in music and— evidently— women. Geralt scowls as he sees Jaskier sweep by, a fair lady on either side. The bard, so caught up in his animated discussion with his lovely companions, does not even notice the witcher’s more-cross-than-usual glower.

Geralt sighs, tosses back the rest of his unsatisfying drink, and stalks from the room. With all the people present, it may be more difficult than usual to retrieve Roach from the stables, but if he glares and growls long enough, Geralt is confident it won’t be too much of a hassle. For a moment, he considers that if he takes Roach, it will leave the bard ride-less, and it is a good three miles back to their inn. _The bard can walk; he’s walked for far longer before_ , he reminds himself. Somehow, this thought doesn’t bother him.

Geralt picks up his pace.

 **—•** **~** ***** **~** **•—**

He wakes up freezing, and no matter how hard he tries, Geralt cannot seem to smell _anything_. It is an alarming predicament, as is the pounding in his head that threatens to bust his skull open, as is the sense of depthless and pervasive **cold** which wracks his body. Geralt shivers, and then sneezes. _Ugh_.

“Bless you,” Jaskier says. Geralt groans, and tries to bury himself more effectively beneath his furs, which don’t seem to be able to keep him warm. He shivers, and sneezes again. Then he groans. Jaskier sighs, somewhere above Geralt. “Well,” the bard says, sounding not the least bit sympathetic, “that’s what you get when you _insist_ that, ‘No, Jaskier, I **don’t** need to stay in a warm inn, even though I’ve just taken a dip in _literally_ freezing waters. Fuck off.’ You’ve brought this sickness upon yourself, witcher.”

But, when Geralt does finally decide to get up, Jaskier has a hot bowl of oatmeal waiting for him.

 **——•** **~** ***** **~** **•——**

By this time, Jaskier has been more-or-less constantly by his side for a couple years, so his sudden absence is startling— it throws Geralt’s long-repressed loneliness into stark, ugly relief.

It’s been a long, grueling three weeks of travels, with nary a coin nor contract in sight. Both men have begun to feel the gnaw of hunger and both have been bogged down by the unpleasant sensations of too little sleep and grime. They’ve finally come across a little slip of a settlement— barely a village— in the north. Supposedly, there is a dragon in these mountains, and the locals have tried to get their nobles’ attention, have tried to bribe and beg the region’s knights to slay the beast. But the lords and ladies of the land have no interest in dragons, and so neither do their knights.

They have, at last, reluctantly resorted to pooling their coin to hire a witcher. Specifically, Geralt.

While the pay is meager, and Geralt doesn’t truly believe that there is a dragon (with them being so rare), these are lean times, and hungry wolves must take what meat they can. This applies even to metaphorical wolves, like Geralt. Jaskier argues that they should move on, that maybe he can weasel a coin or two from some of his more well-connected associates in the sunnier courts down south. He doesn’t think this contract is worth the potential risk— even if it isn’t a dragon, which Geralt knows it isn’t, there is some beast hunting these grounds, and, currently, the witcher is running low on supplies.

Geralt thinks that he can scrape by for this one job, Jaskier thinks he shouldn’t. But the witcher knows that they won’t make it far if they don’t do _something_. After all, they can only obtain supplies if they have funds. Which they do not. So he accepts the contract, and Jaskier, seething, lugs his lute up the mountain path behind Geralt and Roach. For once, the bard is silent, even if his emotions are not.

It does turn out to be a dragon. It turns out to be a dragon and an egg.

Geralt cannot, in good conscience, kill the beast. He doesn’t _kill dragons_. The sole reason he’d taken this contract is because he thought the monster may be, at best, a wyvern. But it is not, so Geralt knows, immediately, that he’s come up all this way for **nothing**. Jaskier groans, and collapses dramatically on the rocky dirt behind him after all the action has past. Something in Geralt snaps.

“You know,” he says, “you aren’t required to be here, _bard_. If a little trek like this bothers you so, why don’t you return to court.”

Jaskier sits up, and his eyes are sharp. He stands, and snatches up his lute. “You know what, Geralt— fine. You’re obviously right: I’m _not_ needed here. Guess I’ll be going back to court, _where I belong_ , let you handle all the witcher stuff.” He huffs once, and strides angrily away.

Only once the bard is a small, lonesome figure against the harsh mountain path below does Geralt regret his words.

The next months are cruel, cold, and bitter. He is lonely.

Once Geralt returns to the settlement, to look for Jaskier _and_ to face the sure-to-disappointed locals, there is no sign of the bard. It is as if he’s been snatched and eaten whole by some terrible creature. The people are, as predicted, disappointed. Geralt barely manages to collect his things and mount Roach before a crowd forms and chases him away, jeering at him, spewing ugly, hateful, _hurtful_ things, and throwing rocks and bits of rotten food the entire time.

After that disaster, he wanders the midlands, searching for work. He finds it in the form of selkiemores, drowners, ghouls, poltergeists, and all other manners of foul beasts. His pay is meager and his jobs many and exhausting. Geralt misses the bard, misses Jaskier’s warm presence. His laughter. His ability to whittle away the hours with his empty chatter. His ability to vanquish Geralt’s harsh moods. His _touch_. Geralt scowls, and urges Roach forward.

 _Fool witcher, you are_ , he thinks angrily, _banishing the one person who **didn’t** despise you_.

 **_<_** **——•** **~** ***** **~** **•——** ** _>_ **

Of all the places for Geralt to run into Jaskier in, he _doesn’t_ expect it to be by a forlorn river, or to happen while he’s stripping down to bathe and the bard is already, and quite alarmingly, naked.

Geralt’s been nursing a headache for days now— caused, he knows, by overuse of his potions. But he’s had little choice, as without Jaskier and his barding around, Geralt is once again reliant solely on his witchering and its ability to supply him with coin. He had somehow never realized how _much_ Jaskier and his ballads contributed to Geralt’s higher standard of living. This, on top of everything else, stings, and it only makes the pit inside him grow.

So no, Geralt is _not_ expecting to come across Jaskier, to see the bard’s quite gloriously-naked backside, or to hear him **singing** while he bathes in the meandering river. Geralt blinks in surprise at the sight. He is also not expecting to feel the warm heat of lust as it pools low in his belly, yet he does—

For some reason, the sight of the bard causes Geralt to become quite dry-mouthed and aroused.

He panics.

 _It’s just **Jaskier**_ , he thinks, with absolute befuddlement, as he turns and silently flees. _Just Jaskier, and nothing more_. But the image of the bard, naked and unabashed in the river, seem burned in his memory, as inescapable as his own breathing.

 ** _< <_** **——•** **~** ***** **~** **•——** ** _> >_**

The next time they find one another, Jaskier is the one who approaches Geralt.

This is certainly unexpected, if not unwelcome, and Geralt feels completely unprepared for the encounter. He is only here, in this no-name inn, in this no-name village, in this unimportant corner of the continent because he is exhausted. Currently, Geralt is also more-than-slightly drunk. He is drunk because, for the past week or so, he’s been trying to outrun his feelings about that dangerously-tempting mental image of a very naked and **terrifyingly** attractive Jaskier. Geralt is doing this because he _cannot have feelings for the bard_. He can’t.

But no matter how fast he makes Roach gallop, no matter how far Geralt journeys, no matter how busy he makes himself be, the witcher cannot escape his own mind. Or his feelings. All of which are telling him that he _wants_ Jaskier. He wants Jaskier, even if the bard does not want him, _cannot_ want him. As if it would even matter if he did want Geralt— because the witcher has no idea where the bard even is. _And that_ , he tells himself forcibly, _is a **good** thing_.

So, no, Geralt does not have a good handle on his emotions— yes, witchers do _feel_ — and so his surprise at Jaskier’s presence must show. The bard plops himself down on the bench across from Geralt and merely looks at him for a moment. “Hello, Geralt.”

“… Jaskier.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” Geralt takes another swig of his ale, and is thankful that he can’t blush. Because, if he were human, Geralt suspects that his face would be more flushed than a virginial maiden’s upon accidentally entering the men’s side of a bathhouse.

Jaskier gives him an unimpressed look. “I see you’re still a _wonderful_ conversationalist, witcher. ‘How am I?’ you ask. Good, Geralt. I’m doing very well for myself indeed.”

“I see.” _That’s good_. He did worry about somehow damaging Jaskier’s ability to interact with his fellow humans, when the bard first started traveling with him. Nice to see that he hasn’t fucked that up, at least. He smiles faintly.

Jaskier blinks at him, and tilts his head a bit. His gaze narrows. “Are you _drunk_ , Geralt?”

“Hmm.” _Perhaps_.

The sound of quiet bootsteps wake Geralt. “Hmm?” He cracks open his eyes, and sees Jaskier’s frozen form by the open door. They’d come up to his room, originally to talk, but it soon became apparent that the witcher was too far gone to really hold a meaningful conversation with the bard. So instead, Jaskier had graciously helped him into bed, and Geralt has listened— with actual _interest_ this time— to his rambling.

“Go back to sleep, witcher. I’ll be out of your long hair shortly.”

Geralt blinks again, and frowns. “Don’t want you… gone.”

The bootsteps stop. “What?”

“Missed you,” the witcher mumbles into his pillow. He’s feeling better than he was earlier, but the room is still spinning, and his brain still feels thick and soup-like. “Stay.”

Jaskier sighs, somewhere above and behind him. “Alright, Geralt. I’ll stay. But you best expect that we’re going to have a conversation in the morning.”

“Okay.” _Whatever makes Jaskier **stay**. He’d fight a thousand monsters if only the bard would stay_. Geralt closes his eyes, trying his best to ignore the warm, _pleased_ thing in his chest.

 **•** ** _< <_** **——•** **~** ***** **~** **•——** ** _> >_** **•**

After their run-in at the inn, Jaskier takes to the road with him again.

Geralt finds himself fighting off more smiles now than he has since… since Jaskier left last time. But he does his best not to let the bard’s presence affect him _too_ much. This includes Jaskier’s physical presence as well, unfortunately. Geralt still hasn’t forgotten the experience of seeing Jaskier _naked_ , even if the recollection of it has become somewhat buried by his sheer relief at having the bard by his side again.

Roach seems to feel a similar relief, for she actually allows Jaskier close to her, which she normally does with no one but Geralt.

However, after their routine has been more-or-less reestablished, Geralt finds himself bothered once more by the _problem_ of Jaskier’s body. He catches himself staring at the bard in the quiet moments, when the other man is tuning his lute, or folding up his bedding, or petting Roach, or scribbling lyrics in his notebook and muttering to himself. When Jaskier is picking flowers, or gathering wood, or when Jaskier— the problem is that Geralt is constantly _looking_ at Jaskier, and he can’t seem to stop.

It’s only a matter of time before he’s caught, Geralt knows. But his desire to observe Jaskier is like a disease. It makes Geralt feel ill, in the most pleasant way. Dizzy and infatuated. _Warm_. And that’s **another** thing. Geralt’s warmness. Unfortunately, it isn’t just his heart which warms for the bard. Geralt’s body is attracted to Jaskier as well. This makes the times they have no other option but to bathe together quite… _difficult_ for the witcher.

 _This is_ , Geralt thinks, _truly the sweetest kind of torture_.

 **~** **•** ** _< <_** **——•** **~** ***** **~** **•——** ** _> >_** **•** **~**

One afternoon, after they’ve just set up camp, Geralt is looking at Jaskier again when the bard glances over at him and his brow furrows. “Geralt?” the bard asks.

“Hmm?” Geralt grunts, _slightly_ too flustered to form words.

“Why are you always watching me?”

Geralt blinks, and feels his pulse begin to thunder in alarm. His senses go on high alert— there is danger here. _Tread carefully_. “I don’t,” he insists, narrowing his gaze.

Jaskier frowns momentarily, and then _his_ gaze narrows. “Bullshit, you don’t! You’re not as sneaky as you think, witcher.”

Geralt swallows, now feeling well and truly fearful. _You **knew** this would happen. You knew. _“I— Jaskier, I’m not… I don’t—” the witcher stammers. The bard’s eyes narrow further.

Then Jaskier’s expression smooths over and he blinks, looking thoughtful. “Geralt,” he says slowly, “I’m going to ask you a question. I want you to answer honestly.” Geralt, feeling absolute **dread** , nods. Jaskier sighs, and stares evenly at him. “Do you like me?”

The witcher blinks, feeling thunderstruck. His mouth opens in an absolute panic, and Geralt blurts, “Jaskier, how could you think—” but his excuse clearly isn’t working. Geralt shuts his mouth, and sighs defeatedly. It’s no use; the game’s up and even _witchers_ know when to quit. “Yes.” _I’m sorry_. Geralt looks down at his hands and waits.

This time, he knows, Jaskier will leave him for good.

But instead of speaking, the bard laughs. Geralt looks up sharply, frowning, and ready to snarl. His feelings may not be reciprocated, may be _monstrous_ and _**terrible**_ to Jaskier, but, surely, it is cruel to laugh at him. He had expected better of the bard, even in rejecting Geralt. _Had they not been friends?_ Perhaps Jaskier sees his apocalyptic look, or perhaps he realizes he’s being rude, because the bard abruptly ceases laughing.

Jaskier throws himself down on the fallen log besides Geralt, and says, softly but insistently, “I’m sorry, Geralt! I— I’m not laughing _at you_ , you see. It’s just… It’s just that, well, I’m **relieved**.” _Relieved?_ Geralt thinks. _Relieved? Why would Jaskier be relieved, when clearly he—_

“You see,” the bard continues, “I like you, and I was hoping you felt the same way about me.”

Geralt blinks, and _knows_ his face must look stunned— he can feel it being absolutely stunned because he _is_ absolutely stunned. But that’s okay, because Jaskier is smiling at him now. _If Jaskier is smiling, everything **must** be okay_.

“Witcher?” the bard asks.

“Hmm?”

“Is it alright if I kiss you now?”

“Yes, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles. His heart beats rapidly in his own ears.

Jaskier leans forward and gently presses their lips together.

**Author's Note:**

> Per usual, this is largely based-off the _Netflix_ characterization of Geralt (and Jaskier, for that matter). A bit of the plot is based vaguely off of episode six, “Rare Species.” 
> 
> I honestly enjoy seeing Jaskier and Geralt together in any form, be it friendship or a relationship. I’ve written gen stuff about them so I wanted to try this because I think they are good for each other :) .


End file.
